


Certain Dark Things Outtakes and One-Shots

by saraubs



Series: Certain Dark Things [3]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-14 04:52:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11775897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saraubs/pseuds/saraubs
Summary: All the extra content from the CDT universe. I hope you guys enjoy :)





	1. Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> This is Magnus's POV after he sees Alec for the second time (when he picks up Chairman Meow). It gives us some background about what happened to him back in NYC. Enjoy :)

It’s been a week, and I still haven’t heard from Alexander Lightwood. I don’t know why I’m disappointed, since I knew he had a boyfriend before I even met him.

Still, seeing him a second time – especially so soon – felt like more than luck. It felt stupidly like fate, or some other shit that people like Josh and Tyler talk about with hearts in their eyes. Even though I know it’s idiotic at best and downright self-destructive at worst, seeing him a second time made me wish for a third, because even when he wasn’t a little tipsy and cornered by a surprise stripper, his particular brand of earnest self-consciousness was endearing.

It’s infuriating, how quickly he has settled under my skin. I mean, yeah, he has those eyes and the perfect facial symmetry and knows how to fill out a pair of slacks, but in all other ways – in all the ways that really matter – he’s like a foreign species. I met Josh when he was still young and scared enough to be Joshua Wiles the Third and his parents had been merely disapproving rather than psychopathic, and their kind of people – not just rich, but _connected_ – were easy to spot.

Alexander Lightwood stank of dirty old money, but impossibly, it hadn’t seemed to leave any stain.

I just don’t understand, after having bullied Josh into showing me the Facebook page for Lightwood’s Animal Haven (which is where Alec raises abandoned animals with his two hands – like a goddamn Fairy Tale Princess) how I’m supposed to stop thinking about him. As it stands, I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time ignoring the obvious creep factor and browsing through years of backlogged posts.

At first I try to convince myself that I’m purely looking for updates about Chairman Meow. That my tracking Alec’s every sentence and status update is purely to ensure that the Chairman is getting the best possible care. I don’t, however, need Josh, looking over my shoulder and scowling, to tell me that is absolute bullshit; pictures of Alec hand-feeding a baby goat from three years ago are hardly related to me missing a cat that I’d had for five days.

And yet, while waiting for the makeup girls to arrive and feeling desperate for something I can’t even name, I tap on profile picture for the Haven for the thousandth time.

It’s Alec, in shorts and a tank top, sitting in a pen full of rabbits. There’s a small black one taking a carrot from his outstretched hand and a pair of aviators tucked into his t-shirt and he looks like there’s no happier place on Earth than a pen full of rabbit shit.

I honestly couldn’t make this up if I tried.

“Magnus, it’s almost time to – okay, this has gone on long enough.” Josh snatches the phone from my hand and throws it across my table.

“Enough of that,” he repeats, brushing my hand away as I reach for my phone. “I forbid you from stalking him. He. Has. A boyfriend. Nothing good will come of this.”

“I’m not stalking him – ” I start, but quickly whither as Josh’s mild disapproval turns into full-blown judgment.

“Pine over whomever you wish, Mags,” he says, grabbing a brush from my vanity and using it to even out his eyeshadow. “But don’t you dare lie to me.”

Irritated that he’s backed me into a corner and unwilling to concede, I do the incredibly mature thing and snatch my brush out of his hand, smirking as it leaves a streak of glitter across his cheekbone.

* * *

Word has gotten back to Mack about the private showing at the Vivandi – something that has Athen Blackmore’s name written all over it – and I’m officially on the Shit List. It’s a place I’ve been before – because of _an insufferable attitude_ (Mack’s words) and _an intrinsic inability to just let things the fuck go_ (Josh’s charming take on the situation) – but this time there’s an upside. When I’m waiting tables between shows or scheduled for back to back VIP viewings, there’s very little time to dwell on Alec Lightwood.

Or at least there _should_ be.

The only problem is that when I’m not caught up in an act, there’s plenty of time to dwell on Alec’s eyes. Or the little flop of hair that swept across his forehead. Or his gigantic, bunny-toting biceps.

Or the way that he’d _looked_ at me, like he could see every part, and not just the ones on display.

It’s especially easy to think about him when presented with a group of men who think I’m standing in front of them for the good of my health while they squabble around the lounge’s round table about a meeting they had earlier this afternoon.

People book private shows for all kinds of reasons, but many of them fall into one of two categories: a last hurrah or borderline creepy. I mean, broadly, that would encompass about 90% of the clientele we serve, but it’s especially true in such close quarters. Obviously there are very specific rules, and Dean, who happens to be a boss guitar player along with being the scariest looking-dude in the joint, is always right outside the door in situations like these. Mack may be an asshole, but he’s a protective, principled asshole, and would sooner chop off his own hand than let someone hurt one of his dancers.

So I’m not scared of the group of men who are paying pretty good money to see me dance – but I am _bored_.

I shift in quietly in place, waiting for them to settle. Beyond the fact that they asked me if I could hold for five minutes, they all have their backs to me. I’ve never felt more like a decorative lamp in my entire life.

I try to be still, but I still have a way to go before I can master the art of inner serenity. One of them – a generically hot blonde in dire need of an eyebrow wax – notices and makes a motion to come closer.

Annoyed, but in desperate need of the tip that often comes with large groups like this one, I edge forward. I move across the floor, eyes low, lips quirked, hip out; it’s not hard to break seduction down into its base parts, especially when you’ve had ample time to study the equation.

The man who called me over smiles, and I take that as an invitation to sidle up next to him. He’s decked out in luxury Brioni and smirking with professionally bleached teeth like he’s the only one who ever has been – unpalatable company outside of work, but within these walls I’m playing a game of survival.

I’m so focused on his smile, on the way he moves his eyes along my body, that I don’t realize what the rest of his friends are doing until it’s right in front of my face.

The powder, in a thin, neat line, looks completely innocuous. They each have a rolled up bill – all hundreds of course – and are cheering each other on. This is innocent fun for them. At the end of the night they’ll unroll their bills, climb in their cars, and speed back to their high-powered lives.

If they pass out, arms hugging a toilet, there will be someone to peel them away, to make sure they look presentable at a board meeting. If they’re in desperate need of a hit, it will be time, not money, that limits them. If they ever have to wake up from an accidental overdose, it’ll be in a top-of-the-line private rehabilitation facility, not in a county hospital with a hysterical best friend and an impossible medical bill.

“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” Brioni purrs, smirking as he holds out his own rolled up bill. “But I won’t tell if you won’t.”

I don’t even have it in me to answer. I can’t open my mouth, because I’m afraid if I do, it will be to say yes. Yes to this, and then yes to something else, and then yes to everything I walked away from two years ago.

It’s painful, how easy it is to envision saying yes. So, to be safe, I don’t say anything at all. I just turn, not pausing to tell Brioni to get his damn hand off my ass, or to apologize for canceling the show, or to report the lot of them to Mack. Instead, I just make my way to the dressing room’s solitary shower, turn the cold water on, and step in.

I stay there until Josh finds me.

I hear him long before he makes his way back to me; the backroom at the club is large, but cluttered, and it’s impossible to pick your way through without constant reshuffling. There are no dressing rooms, but every performer has his own station – mirror, costume rack, shelf full of props and personal effects – and they all spill into one another. The singular bathroom is jammed in the back corner, as far from my station as possible – and don’t I know that Mack did it on purpose, the dick.

So it takes a bit of time between when I first hear Josh’s reedy “Magnus” and when he finally sees me, cramped and shivering in the glitter-encrusted stall.

It’s touching, how quickly his face can go from exasperated and annoyed to terrified and concerned. “Magnus, what the hell happened?”

“Nothing,” I say, and it’s the truth. Against all odds, nothing happened. I should be happy – proud, even.

“Did somebody hurt you? Do I need to find Dean? Or Mack? Do I need to call a doctor?”

“They were doing coke,” I say, just needing Josh to shut up.

Predictably, he does.

“But you didn’t.”

“Of course I didn’t,” I snap, finally letting myself feeling something. Hurt, betrayal –emotions I don’t have any right to, especially not when it comes to Josh.

He backpedals so quickly that I feel instantly guilty. “Of course you didn’t. Should we – should I go and talk to Mack?”

“No.” I rest my head against the stall, and do nothing when Josh reaches in to turn off the water. He hands me a towel, and I wish I could wipe away that feeling of longing, that intense need to just give in – _just this once_ – as easily.

“He’s pissed, Mags, and it’s totally unfair of him to hold this against you.”

“No,” I say again. “It isn’t. I walked out of there. I chose to do that.”

“Yeah, because you – ”

“Doesn’t matter.” Josh opens his mouth again to argue, but I glare him into silence. “I said I’ll deal with Mack, and I will.”

I reach out and gently push him in the direction of the door. “Your shift is over. Your boyfriend is leaving tomorrow. Go home.”

He tries to turn again, only to have me spin him a second time. “Go, Josh. Just go.”

“I hate to leave you,” he says, dejected.

“And I hate to stay,” I reply with a wink. “Now go, get laid. Reenact scenes from Lord of the Rings. Recite epic poetry to each other. Do whatever it is that you weirdos do when I’m not home.”

“We do not recite epic poetry,” Josh says, bright red and lying through his teeth.

“Tyler does not recite poetry,” he amends when I raise an eyebrow.

I roll my eyes and settle into my desk, plucking out a facial wipe and starting the arduous task of cleaning up my smudged eye makeup. “Loser,” I say as Josh walks by.

“Asshole,” he replies, but I don’t miss how he lingers, for just a second, when he thinks I’m not looking.

I wait until his footsteps have faded to put my head on my desk and just breathe.

* * *

By the time Mack tracks me down my makeup is flawless. I’m reading a pulp science fiction novel that I found in a trade-in box at the grocery store, and he plucks it right out of my hands without so much as a ‘hello’. He tosses it across the room, where it lands in a pile of props and random costume pieces.

“Dammit, Mack. Now I’ll never know what the sexy alien has in her pants.” I spin around so that we’re facing each other, and prop my feet up on my table. A small tube of eyeliner rolls to the floor, and the vein in Mack’s forehead throbs in time with the small noise.

“I’m not sure if anyone’s ever given you the memo,” snarls Mack, looking for all the world like an angry bulldog. “but your last name is not meant to be a prescriptive. I need _dependable_ workers, not entitled little shits who think they can fuck off out of a show whenever they feel like it.”

I look down at my fingernails. My polish is black, but all I can see is white: a stark white line, pure and tempting and right there, right in front of me. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Been getting that sentiment a lot lately, Magnus.” Mack fishes something out of his pocket and throws it at me: a bottle of Ibuprofen. “Next time you’re feeling under the weather, pop a couple of these, and then do your fucking job.” The _or find a new one_ is heavily implied, but Mack knows he doesn’t have to spell these things out.

I roll the tube back and forth in my fingers; when Mack is in a mood like this, it’s best to just let it blow over you.

“There’s a Bachelorette this weekend.” He leans down so that we’re at eye level, so that he can see if I so much as twitch. “You’ll be working it.”

A bachelorette, on my day off, which happens to be the only weekend I had free this month.

This is what getting off easy feels like, and I know I deserve far more.

I smile, just to enjoy the way Mack’s face spasms, and then give a throaty little purr. “I can’t wait.”


	2. By Any Other Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josh and Tyler's first kiss!

“You still haven’t told me your name.” The beautiful boy – _Tyler_ , I remind myself – says, his teeth catching between his lips as he smiles.

“Who says I’m going to give it to you?” I try to recapture the playful tone I had inside, but it’s so much harder out here, with the mist sprinkling on my face. In the club, dressed to kill and protected by a layer of glitter, I’d felt invincible. I’d seen Magnus staring from across the bar, giving his subtle eyebrow raise, and knew that I’d been doing everything right. It’s like the very persona of Ragnor Fell imbues me with confidence, and unfortunately that confidence washes away with my makeup.

Tyler takes a step forward, and his broad shoulders provide a perfect shield from the rain. It also gives me the perfect vantage point to admire his eyes – one blue, the other blue and brown. They’re perfect. He’s perfect. In fact, he may be the hottest person who has ever talked to me, and if the earnest way he’s looking at me is any indication he isn’t nearly the asshole I’d thought he would be when he pushed a beer down the bar toward me.

“You have to,” he says. “How would I find you again otherwise?”

I take a deep breath, praying that the cool mist prevents me from flushing. I channel my inner Ragnor, slinking forward and raising my eyelashes like Magnus had instructed hundreds of times when I was trying to get ready for this job. “You didn’t like the show enough to come back?”

This time it’s Tyler who flushes. Full and deep, an expanse of red across his impossible cheekbones. He swallows visibly and smiles again. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Then what would you say?”

He squares his shoulders and inches even closer, close enough that I can smell the yeasty tang of beer on his breath. Never again will I associate it with the creeps who scramble over the side of the stage, trying their best to touch any bare patch of skin. “I’d say tell me your name, so that I can ask you out properly.”

If I’m supposed to continue to act coy after that declaration, I’m just not cut out for this flirting business. “It’s Josh,” I answer, my voice barely above a whisper. “Josh Fell.”

“Josh.” Tyler repeats my name like it’s some kind of wonder instead of the fourth most popular boy’s name for the year I was born. “Well, Josh Fell,” he says, smile broadening, “can I take you out sometime?”

I answer too quickly, something Magnus would surely fault me for if he were here. Thankfully he isn’t, and I need to agree to this before my brain has a chance to catch up. Before I have a chance to say no. “Yes,” I say. “Yes, you may.”

You may? This is why impossibly hot guys with improbably sweet smiles shouldn’t talk to me. Why they _don’t_ talk to me.

Instead of turning around and walking quickly in the opposite direction – which, lets be honest, I wouldn’t blame him for – he reaches out and takes my hand. Then he draws a pen out of his pocket and presses the felt tip against the pale skin and traces out the seven digits of his phone number.

“Don’t let it wash away,” he says, his fingers tracing a path across my wrist as he pulls away.

I refrain from telling him it’s already memorized, that I would remember it fifty years from now, even if this is the last time I hear from him. Instead, I just pull my sleeve down to shelter the writing.

The cab that Tyler called as he was waiting for me to change pulls up, interrupting me from saying anything embarrassing.

“So you’ll call?” Tyler asks, looking so hopeful that I want to pinch myself. Guys like him shouldn’t look like that over me. I try to smile, but I’m still waiting for the catch.

“I will,” I manage to stutter. He turns and I feel a rush of courage that surprises the hell out of me. I reach out and grab his hand, pulling him back into me. His eyes are wide and bright, but he looks pleased enough that I don’t lose face. I draw him even closer and push up onto my tiptoes, draping my arms around his neck. “I will definitely call,” I say and then press my lips to his.

The kiss is short, but I still have time to feel droplets of rain on his lips as they part. His hands are so big that they span across my entire back and I shudder as that fact fully registers.

When we break apart Tyler gently disentangles my arms and smiles softly. “I’ll be counting the minutes, Josh Fell.”


	3. You'll be Counting Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Josh and Tyler's first date!

“Maybe he’s a serial killer.”

“Josh,” Magnus says for the hundredth time, pressing his fingers to his temples dramatically. “He’s _not_ a serial killer.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

Magnus throws down the bowl he’s been scrubbing and blows his bangs out of his eyes while he dries his hands. “Josh, the chances that he’s a serial killer are – “

“Well,” I start, thinking back to an article I read for a sociology class a year ago. “If we take into consideration the population increase since the last definitive study in –“

“Josh!” Magnus snaps, gripping my cheeks in his warm hands. “He. Is not. A serial killer. You really need to give yourself some more credit.”

“He won’t even tell me what we’re doing on this date. Plus, who goes on a date at ten o’clock at night? It’s just all so…”

“Romantic?” Magnus prompts.

“Sketchy,” I decide.

“Then don’t go,” Magnus says, grabbing a coke from the fridge and sprawling out on our worn sofa.

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” I agree, running my finger over a groove in my cell phone.

“Jesus Christ,” Magnus moans, choking a little on his drink. “You’re going, Josh. You’re going and you’re wearing those black boxers with the white stripe on the band.”

“You mean the boxers you took last week when you brought that Moroccan dude home from the club?”

“Those exact ones,” Magnus says, raising an eyebrow. “Guaranteed-to-get-some boxers,” he adds with a smirk.

“Okay, first of all, ew. I threw those away as soon as you put them back in my bedroom. And what’s more, I don’t need ‘getting laid’ boxers if I don’t plan on getting laid.” I pause, thinking of the last person I slept with, all awkward fumbles and excruciating small talk afterward. Definitely not eager to repeat that experience.

“You can’t let one bad experience sour the whole institution,” Magnus says, completely bewildered. It’s so easy for him. He can have anyone he wants, and he’s no more familiar with an awkward silence or fumbling touch than my parents are with gay porn. The two just don’t go together, ever. Period.

“I don’t really have any interest in casual sex,” I say, fumbling through a game on my phone, trying to dispel my mounting anxiety. “Especially not with him.”

“With a guy that looks like him, I don’t know how you can be interested in anything else.”

“I don’t know,” I reason, frustrated that this has to be so much harder for me than it is for him. “He just seems so…”

“Fuckable?”

“Sweet,” I answer, throwing an empty Dr. Pepper bottle at Magnus’s head.

“Ah, a sweet serial killer.” He stretches, reaching across the floor for the television remote. “The very worst kind.”

I tell him to shut up, but there’s no real fire behind my words. I glance down at the time – 8:17 – and my heartbeat kicks up a few notches. Less than two hours to go.

\--

“What are you doing?” I hiss as Magnus races me to the door. Tyler has just arrived and is climbing out of an old, box-like car. He’s dressed warmly – it’s supposed to be unseasonably cool tonight – and I wonder how he looks even better in sweats than he did at the club. Maybe the week-long wait has just tampered with my memories, but looking at him feels like getting hit by a truck. He looks damn good and I’m instantly self-conscious.

In the ten seconds it takes for me to silently panic, Magnus has the door open and is stepping out into the driveway.

I hear him starting to introduce himself and I grab my messenger bag and scurry out after him, ready to give him a hard jab in the ribs if needed.

“Picture saved on my phone,” I hear Magnus saying as I approach. Tyler is looking at Magnus like he’s unsure if he should laugh, and Magnus’s hand is resting lightly on his hip, which I know he only does when he’s trying to prove a point.

“Tyler,” I manage to squeak out while surreptitiously elbowing Magnus in the diaphragm. “Sorry about Magnus, he was just going inside.”

“Nice to meet you, Magnus,” Tyler says, his smile widening in earnest as he takes me in.

“Don’t fuck it up, Tyler,” Magnus replies before making a graceful retreat.

“I’m really sorry,” I blurt out once Magnus has shut the door. “I don’t go out much and Magnus – well, he’s a little overprotective.”

“It’s okay.” Tyler offers his hand and I take it eagerly, warmth bubbling up in my chest at the gesture. “I have a twin sister, I understand how it is.” We walk to the car and he opens my door and closes it gently behind me.

The inside of the car smells like oranges and there’s a grey backpack sitting on the back seat, but there’s nothing to give me any hint as to what we’re doing. When I ask Tyler where we’re going he just smiles and says it’s a secret. He gives me control of the radio and I resist both the urge to sing along and to prop my feet up on the dashboard.

Driving in the front seat of a car is a strange experience. In New York my parents had a driver, so I spent most of my childhood staring out of tinted back windows. Since we moved here we haven’t had the money for a car, settling for buses or cabs. I can count the number of times I’ve been in a front seat on one hand.

Trying to avoid blurting out anything awkward, I ask Tyler about his sister and spend the rest of the drive drinking in everything he tells me about his family. Tolerant, loving, and loud – the very opposite of my uptight East Coast parents – they sound like a dream come true. I get so lost listening to Tyler talk about them, so enthralled by the little smile he gets when telling me a particularly funny story, that I don’t notice where we are until he shuts off the engine.

If Tyler were a serial killer, this would pretty much be the prime location to commit murder. We’re in a broad expanse of desert, no cars or buildings visible anywhere. The wind whistles lowly, rustling some of the low growing plants and causing me to shiver.

“So is this standard first-date fare?” I’m only mostly teasing. The last (and only) time I was on a first date we drove sixty miles to huddle in the back of a dark movie theatre – somewhere I knew my parents would never find us.

“This isn’t a first date,” Tyler says, grabbing the backpack from the back seat of the car and slinging it over a shoulder.

Shame floods through my stomach like ice water and for a second I wonder how I could have been so stupid as to believe that this was going to work out.

Completely oblivious to the effect his words have had Tyler walks up and slips his fingers through mine for the second time. His hand is easily twice the size of mine, and much warmer. “This is a pre-date,” he clarifies. “Reconnaissance for when I take you out on a proper date.”

“Oh,” I reply dumbly, relaxing infinitesimally and enjoying the warmth of his body pressed against mine. Feeling a little emboldened by his obvious interest, I pull away and smile slowly, trying to save face. “What makes you think there’s going to be a first date, then?”

Tyler adjusts his backpack and looks to the sky. “I am prepared to wish on every single one of those stars, Josh Fell.”

I follow his gaze upward and I’m momentarily stunned by the display. The sky is bursting with light; there are more stars than I’ve seen in my life. For all my parents’ money and fancy vacations, this is one view you could never pay to recreate. While I continue to stare, open-mouthed, Tyler takes out a blanket and three thermoses. “Have a seat,” he says, sweeping his hand in the direction of the green and red checkered blanket.

When I settled in he holds up the three thermoses. “Coffee, tea, or hot chocolate?”

I flush, surprised that he has gone through so much effort for me. Honestly, dinner and a movie is more than I would have ever expected or hoped for. The thought of him at home, thinking about what I would like best, warms me more quickly than either of the drinks.

“Hot chocolate please.” He hands over the container, which has mini marshmallows floating in it, and takes the tea for himself. From within the bag he grabs a Tupperware dish full of cookies – “my mom’s recipe,” he says proudly – and hands them over.

They’re delicious – of course – and I as soon as I finish mine, Tyler settles down on the blanket and tugs me down beside him. “Tell me about your family,” he says, once we’ve settled in.

Not wanting to get into anything too heavy, I go for the simplest answer. “Magnus is my family.” He doesn’t prod or demand explanation, merely asks about Magnus and listens to all the best stories I have about our years together. Eventually we move on to other topics, but the conversation never feels forced. We stay there for hours, and when I shiver he draws me in close, settling my head just under his clavicle. He runs his fingers slowly through my hair as I talk, and lying like that, under all those stars, I feel for the first time like this has the chance to become something special.


	4. What's Left Unsaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Josh and Tyler story *hides* I'm in the middle of trying to update two new stories, but I thought I'd pull this old one out of its folder. Sorry for the Josh/Tyler overload, but I can't help it - they're just so adorable.

Tyler watched with hooded eyes as his teammate got ready to go out. It was past ten and their fourth consecutive night on the road, and he’d been awake for nearly seventeen hours. At this point, it was only through sheer force of will that his eyes were still open.

Between beats of the obnoxious music that managed to filtered through his noise-cancelling headphones, he glanced down to his screen – still no message from Josh, though he’d been expecting one for a couple of hours now – and then back up, only to find his roommate, Clint, gesticulating wildly.

“You sure you don’t wanna come?” Clint said as soon as Tyler lowered the headphones. “Dex has _connections_ and I know for a fact that this party is going to be fucking wild.” Clint spoke every sentence as if it was the most important one ever uttered. “I wouldn’t want to have to see it all on Instagram tomorrow – FOMO, man; it’s a thing.”

“Not sure that means what you think it means,” Tyler said, grinning as Clint waved a hand over his shoulder impatiently.

“Hot chicks and beer,” Clint said, raising one of his hands in the air. “And sleep,” he tacked on, dropping the other hand to his side. “Totally missing out, bro.”

Not for the first time, Tyler felt the urge to gently correct his teammate. He knew that Clint didn’t mean anything by it – knew that most of his teammates would be unfazed by his sexuality if he told them about it – but he’d been counseled by the higher-ups to keep his mouth shut, so that’s what he did.

It grated, but if that’s what he had to do to keep the focus on the team’s burgeoning success, then that’s what he would do.

“Get back to me once the hangover’s set in.” Tyler smiled and pulled his headphones back on, waiting until Clint finally left their hotel room – awful music in tow – to lean over to the beside table that had slowly become populated with his knickknacks over the past few days and pulled out a worn copy of The Princess Bride.

He opened the cover slowly, running his fingers over the creases that had formed with time. Though he’d only had it in his possession for a handful of days, he knew the worn grooves nearly by heart – as he did the neat, looping signature that graced the inside cover: _Joshua Fell_.

Just looking at Josh’s name was enough to wipe away any vestige of fatigue. His very chemistry betrayed him when it came to Josh; his heart jumped more quickly than after a straight sprint downfield, and his stomach squeezed thinking of what he was supposed to do when he got back to Vegas.

He wasn’t sure how to explain that their relationship – barely weeks old – was already tainted by deceit.

Anxious and unsure, Tyler drummed his fingers against the cover as he flicked through his messages again, only to see Josh’s last reply: _Good luck tonight. Xo._

Tyler knew he was at the library; it was where he spent most of his time, now that the final edits of his thesis were due. In the short time they’d been dating, Tyler had spent more time in the LVU library than most of the students, because he wanted to be wherever Josh was. He’d spent whatever time he could fiddling on his phone, writing to his sister, and mapping out the next few months of his schedule, all while watching out of the corner of his eye as Josh’s nose wrinkled adorably.

He watched on, enraptured, as Josh wrote eloquently about things that he would never understand, nodding along like he knew exactly what Josh was saying as he waxed poetic about the finer points of aeronautics.

How was he supposed to tell Josh – who wasn’t just smart, but a certifiable fucking _genius_ – that not only was he completely lost on the topic of structural engineering, but that he could barely read?

It wasn’t that he thought Josh would judge – the first time Tyler had met him, he’d been dressed in nothing but a G-string and managed to be more genuine than anyone he’d ever met. He just couldn’t make himself say the words. Instead, whenever Josh gushed about the books that he loved, Tyler audibly marveled at how in sync their tastes seemed to be. Instead of admitting that it had taken him nearly a month to read The Hobbit, and that he’d stared at the Lord of the Rings for weeks, trying to unscramble the convoluted passages before finally giving in and just watching the movies, he just asked for recommendations like the idiot he was.

And this is where he’d ended up: in bed with a book that he could envision perfectly, had poured over for hours, but still didn’t _understand_.

Groaning in frustration, he slumped back against his pillow, letting the book fall onto the bed. He should have known that this would happen – in fact, he was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner, what with the stacks of books that lined Josh’s room.

This is what came of lying; his mother, who’d never once been ashamed of his learning disability, would be ashamed of him now, he was sure. He’d dug himself into this hole, and he would have to damn well pull himself out of it.

They’d been lying on the worn out couch in Josh’s living room, kissing and flicking through the channels lazily, trying to find something to watch. Unable to concentrate on anything more than the feeling of Josh’s body pressed against his, Tyler had grunted noncommittally when Josh suggested _The Princess Bride_. It wasn’t until they were twenty minutes in that Tyler admitted he’d never seen the movie – and Josh had nearly fallen to the floor.

It had taken him less than twenty seconds to get to his room and return with the book, pressing it eagerly into Tyler’s hand.

“I always wished I could have read this before the movie,” he said. “You should take it with you when you go. You can think of me when you read it.”

Unable to get past the tinge of pink that dusted Josh’s cheeks once he’d realized what he’d said, Tyler had agreed without blinking. The panic hadn’t set in until a few minutes later, when he’d had time to realize how long the book was and the impossibility of ever finishing it while on the road.

“Don’t worry,” Josh had said, leaning down to press his lips against Tyler’s throat, dragging his teeth along the sensitive skin. “You’ll zip through it – it’s _that_ good.”

Then, when Josh slipped his hand under Tyler’s shirt and scraped lightly against the warm, sensitive skin beneath, Tyler had decided that the book was a problem for another day.

Unfortunately, that day had arrived.

When he picked the book back up, Tyler resolved to put forth the attention it required; he could do this, he just had to try. He flicked forward through the first few chapters, settling on the last page he could remember finishing. Then, fighting the fatigue that threatened to overwhelm him, he sat up, crossed his legs, and slowly started to read.

He was in the same position when Clint walked back in four hours later, drunk and loud.

“Bro! What the hell are you doing?” He flopped on the bed, plucking the book out of Tyler’s hand with little care for the delicate pages. Tyler tried to wrestle it away from him, but it seemed to be more dangerous than just letting him forget that he was holding it. Plus, as he surged forward, he was met with the sour stench of cigarettes and gin.

“Jesus,” he said, waving a hand in front of his face. “Smells like you had a good time.”

“You have no idea.” Clint leafed through the book for a few seconds before tossing it back on the bed. “How was your night?”

“All right.” Tyler ripped a piece of paper from the hotel’s notepad to stick in the book. It wasn’t until he’d slipped it in that he realized how little of the novel he’d actually gotten through. “Dozed off for a while I think.”

“Bus leaves at seven,” Clint said, moving over to his own bed and collapsing without removing any of his clothes. “Here’s hoping I’m still drunk.”

Biting back a laugh, Tyler gently put the book on the nightstand and flicked off his lamp. Just as he was reaching to plug his phone off, there was a series of quick beeps: the signature text tone that he’d set up for Josh.

 _Just in from the library_ , it read. _Can’t wait to see you tomorrow!_

There was a picture attached – Josh, looking exhausted but happy, with his blonde hair sticking out from beneath a bright purple beanie that definitely belonged to Magnus. With thoughts of seeing Josh again at the forefront of his mind, Tyler managed to ignore the book problem for long enough to grab a few hours sleep.

\--

By the time he got back to town, Tyler had worked himself back into a panic. Pausing at his apartment only long enough to drop off his bags, he’d taken a cab straight to the university, armed with the half-finished book and a slew of notes that he’d written out and studied on the plane. He could barely remember the names of the characters, his thoughts were so jumbled, and though he thought that he’d probably love the movie, he couldn’t unwind enough to truly enjoy the book. Anxiety about his reading hadn’t been this high since he’d struggled through his last college exam, and it tainted what was clearly supposed to be a light-hearted, funny read.

Knowing that he needed to come clean – for his own sake as much as for any other, nobler reason – he used the walk from the University Centre to Josh’s office to rehearse what he was going to say. A quick rundown of the facts – he’d explained them to enough professors to know what he should say – interspersed with profuse apologies would do it, he was sure.

As he neared the office, the anticipation of seeing Josh won out over the gut-churning anxiety of having to come clean. He could picture the squat little room, which was barely the size of his parents’ porch and filled to the brim with post-it notes, diagrams, and a photos of Josh and Magnus, perfectly. He tried to focus on the memory of the newest photo – a selfie that Josh had snapped just after their second date – that had been tacked up the last time that Tyler had stopped by, using it as proof that he actually belonged there. As concrete evidence that Josh liked him. That they were _compatible._

Fighting another wave of anxiety, Tyler turned down the final hallway, ready to knock at Josh’s door.

But for the first time since he’d started visiting, Josh’s door was wide open. Inside, exactly where he’d been expecting to find him, was Josh, bent over a piece of paper and scribbling furiously. But to his right, sitting on a chair that had been turned backward and adding little notes to Josh’s work, was someone Tyler had never seen before.

The visitor laughed – at something Josh said, presumably – and threw his head back to reveal a cute, crooked smile, and dark plastic-framed glasses that highlighted, rather than masked, his bright blue eyes. Then, snorting again softly, he leaned back into Josh, brushing their arms together only to laugh softly again when Josh stuttered and pulled back.

Not wanting to be caught staring, Tyler moved forward quietly and knocked against the frame.

“Josh?” His voice, quiet though it was, broke the concentration of the two students, and Josh jumped up with a smile big enough to assuage Tyler’s steadily mounting unease.

“Tyler!” In a second Josh was across the room and hugging into Tyler’s chest. Warmth blossomed at the touch and Tyler couldn’t stop from smiling. “How was the flight?”

“Long.” It was true – he’d been awake for the better part of two days, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be functional. He fell into the chair Josh pulled up for him, and did his best to smile politely at the guy who’d just been doing his best to hit on his boyfriend.

“Hi, I’m Tyler.” He stuck his hand out and the newcomer shook it tentatively. Clearly unhappy at the intrusion, he just mumbled a reply and bent down to start scribbling on the paper anew.

“This is Clark,” Josh said, with a quick nod of his head. “He’s helping me through one of my snags.”

To Tyler’s surprise, Clark laughed again.

“More like acting as a sounding board,” he said, staring at Josh with open admiration. “If Josh can’t figure out a problem, I don’t know what kind of chance I have at solving it.”

That, at least, was one thing that Tyler and Clark had in common.

“Clark’s a Post-Doc in applied math,” Josh said, flushing under the praise. “And he’s just being modest.”

Clark waved a hand, and Tyler tried not to stare. He had never been so tempted to try to slap a guy with his own hand, and he spent most of his roadies bunking up with Clint.

“I’m really not. Our department would kill to have him.”

“I’m sure anyone would love to have him,” Tyler said beatifically, trying as hard as he could to channel his mother’s Midwestern manners. He drummed his fingers against the cover of Josh’s book, lost for what to say next. He usually prided himself in his ability to keep a conversation flowing – he grew up on a farm, and the hours were long if you didn’t like to talk – but between the exhaustion and the sudden, absurd jealousy, he could barely string a sentence together. “He’s really good at math.”

 _He’s really good at math_. If there was ever a time that Tyler wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole, this was it.

Clearly fighting back a smirk, Clark turned to face Tyler head-on. “So are you also in the Engineering department, Tyler?”

Though he could tell by the tone that Clark knew quite well that he was not, Tyler felt compelled by politeness to answer anyway.

“Tyler’s a professional athlete,” Josh said, seemingly just as oblivious to the underhanded insult as he was to the flirting. It almost took the sting away – seeing him so obviously proud.

“How interesting.”

Tyler could read everything he needed to about Clark’s opinion of him in that single statement. Fighting to keep a straight face, he focused on the pictures that lined Josh’s walls, blocking out every painful memory he had of people thinking that because he could kick a soccer ball it meant that everything else in his life came easily.

But the remark must have fallen flat to even Josh’s forgiving ears, because it earned him nothing but a puzzled stare and an awkward silence.

Clearly embarrassed, Clark hastily gathered up his notes and jammed them into the leather messenger. He waited for a painful thirty seconds before interjecting with a tentative, “Uh, Josh?”

When he saw the way that Clark’s face fell under Josh’s apathetic gaze, Tyler almost felt sorry for him; Josh also turned him into a disaster of a human being, and it was only through some stroke of cosmic luck that he’d decided he was worth dating.

Josh, who was busy putting his own things away, just replied with a distracted, “hmm?”

“If you need anything else, just let me know,” Clark said before turning on his heels and disappearing down the corridor.

As soon as he left, Josh left his papers and calmly walked over to shut the door.

“Hey.” Tyler walked over and took one of Josh’s hands in his. Even the small touch was enough to soothe his fraying nerves, to make him feel, at least for a second, like he was finally home. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that that bordered on rude.”

“Who, me?” Josh looked up with a glint of mischief in his eyes. He looked as he had the first time that Tyler had ever seen him: a paradoxical mix of innocent and sexy that sent a rush of longing straight up Tyler’s spine.

“I grew up in a political house,” Josh said, glaring at the door. “And I speak both fluent subtext and asshole. If he was going to be such a colossal douche, he could have at least been upfront about it.”

Tyler reached out and pulled Josh into him. He loved the way that Josh went on his tiptoes instinctually, just so that he could wrap his arms around Tyler’s neck. His skin was soft and warm, and when their lips touched, it was like everything else in the room melted away. There was only Josh – his tongue against Tyler’s teeth, his nails against Tyler’s neck, and his body pressing, pressing, pressing until Tyler could barely breathe.

“Give the guy a break,” Tyler whispered when they finally broke apart. “Don’t you know how hard it is to be so close you to and not get to do that?”

Josh spluttered and stammered before finally breaking away. “You think that he – that _Clark_? You’re just being ridiculous.”

Fighting against another irrational surge of jealousy, Tyler smiled and shook his head. “Okay, Mr. ‘I’m fluent in subtext’. I think you’re either out of practice or delusional, because there is no way that he did not want in your pants.”

“Even _if_ that were true,” Josh said with a shake of his head, “that doesn’t give him the right to treat you that way. Like you’re some kind of idiot jock.”

“Maybe,” Tyler said quietly, trying to forget how the words ‘idiot jock’ sounded in Josh’s mouth, even if they weren’t directed at him, “he just thought that you should be with someone on your level.”

“On my level?” Josh, to his credit, looked completely confused – maybe even a little hurt. “Like, are we talking vertically, or do you mean ‘my level’ as in skinny, geeky, loser? As in, the complete opposite of all this?” He waved his hand at Tyler’s midsection, his face drooping a little more.

“Jesus, no!” Tyler rushed forward to pull Josh into his chest once again. “Come on Josh, you know you’re gorgeous.”

Josh ran his fingers along Tyler’s sides, sighing as he moved. “Well, there’s ‘gorgeous’ and then there’s you.”

Tyler knew the effect he could have on men – and women, for that matter. There were fans that asked him to do all kinds of weird things, and he’d had a steady stream of guys in college who were too happy to inflate his ego with talk of exactly how attractive he was.

In fact, that was all they _ever_ talked about.

In his darkest moments, when words began to blur together, or when Josh seemed distant or dismissive, or when there were guys with ‘Doctor’ in front of their names pressing their arms against Josh’s in open invitation, Tyler wondered if that’s all Josh saw in him. If that was all there was to see in him. He wasn’t smart or witty or funny. One day his looks would fade and his joints would seize, and he wasn’t sure what would be left behind when that happened. Would that person be someone worth falling in love with? Would that person be worthy of a guy like Josh?

“That’s not what I meant,” Tyler said, pulling back so that he could see Josh’s expression. “I mean someone who was more on your level…intellectually.”

“Intellectually?” If anything, the hurt on Josh’s face deepened, rather than disappeared. “So what, you think that’s the kind of person I am? You think that I don’t want to date you because you’re not a PhD? Because you didn’t go Ivy? Like I’m some kind of judgmental WASPy –”

“No, I – Christ.” In that instant, when Josh’s face was clouded with confusion and disappointment, when for the thousandth fucking time in his life he couldn’t find the words to express what it was he really wanted to say, Tyler just blurted out the truth.

“Josh, I have a learning disability.” With that quick admission, it was as if a valve had been suddenly opened; the words flew out of his mouth with little care or control, and Tyler couldn’t make them stop. All the carefully constructed explanations and examples were gone; there was nothing but this vomitus deluge. “I needed a tutor just to make it through my Undergraduate degree, and even then there were times when I just wanted to just quit. All the books I told you I liked – I watched the movies. All the poems I pretended to know or the theories I pretended to understand – those were all lies.” As he stopped to catch his breath, it felt as though the temperature in the room had dropped ten degrees; Tyler’s teeth chattered, but he still couldn’t stop talking.

“I stayed up for hours every night I was gone, trying to make it through this book,” he continued, “and I still can’t tell you what the hell is going on. I swear, I wanted to tell you, but – ”

“Stop.” Josh’s voice was soft, but firm. To reiterate his point, he pressed a single finger against Tyler’s lips for a few seconds before drawing him close. “I am so, so sorry for all the pressure I put on you.”

He slowly guided Tyler backward, step-by-step, until the back of his knees bumped against Josh’s desk.

“And I’m sorry,” he said, leaning in to press his mouth against Tyler’s, “if I ever made you feel like you weren’t smart enough or good enough.” He kissed Tyler again – a soft brush of lips that made Tyler’s legs feel like he’d just played a ninety-minute game. Then, instead of pulling away, he pressed closer. He pushed Tyler back onto the desk and climbed into his lap, wrapping his small legs around Tyler’s waist.

“I can only imagine the kind of strength it took to keep going during those times,” Josh said, pushing Tyler’s hair out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ear. He was close enough that Tyler was sure he could feel the pounding of his heart through his threadbare t-shirt. “But I’m not surprised,” he continued. “Considering that I’ve known since the night we met that you were amazing.”

This time, Tyler didn’t need any words. Instead, he just pulled Josh closer and surrendered. He gave himself fully to the sensation of Josh’s skin against his – to the warm, wet pressure of Josh’s mouth. He lost any sense of time or propriety, forgetting that they were even in a public building until Josh broke away and asked if they should lock the door.

With Josh’s breath hot on his neck and the teasing, electric spark that alighted whenever he leaned forward to kiss along his jaw, it was almost impossible for Tyler to say no. He wanted nothing more but to spread Josh out along this table – to make him fall apart, to give him something to think about when Tyler was on the road – but he knew that this wasn’t the time. Even now, with the small break in kissing, he could feel the chill start to permeate his chest. The feeling of impending doom that often accompanied his panic had settled, but he still felt jittery and out-of-sorts. His admission had been exhausting, and he was already so tired. What he needed was rest – rest and a warm bed – and he said so.

“None of that,” he said, kissing Josh’s cheek as soon as he started to apologize. None of this was Josh’s fault; he had been as he always was – perfect. “Just take me to bed, Josh.”

Josh nodded and gently threaded his hands through Tyler’s and pulled him toward the door.

“Always,” he said, kissing Tyler’s fingers as they walked out of the office and toward the comforting refuge of home.


End file.
